


He Has, and He Can

by May_Shepard



Series: What a Tender World [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6648103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tells John about Victor Trevor.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	He Has, and He Can

In the front hall at Baker Street, everything is hushed and still. John removes his coat, listening for any indication that Sherlock is home.

He damn well should be. He only texted fifteen minutes before.

_I’ve got a case. Come help?_

John has, in fact, been thinking about coming over anyway, uninvited. He doesn’t know why he feels like he needs an invitation these days, but he does. It’s been three days since he last saw Sherlock, and his skin itches. He’s lingered in town after work in the hope of being summoned, running errands that take him closer and closer to 221B. As always, he moves in Sherlock’s orbit without knowing whether he’s truly welcome.

Now, as he climbs the stairs, he doesn’t know what he’s going to find. His heart pounds and his skin crawls as he reaches the landing outside the flat.

Sherlock is lying on the couch. It’s pyjama pants and silk robes today. His hands are in prayer position. He’s utterly still, a mantis, a beautiful statue.

John checks himself.  _Beautiful_  isn’t a word he uses lightly, not even privately. He can’t help it, though. Sherlock is beautiful. It’s one of the reasons John had to get away. It’s one of the reasons why, despite Sherlock’s return, he married Mary. So he could put a wall of, sorts, between his heart and Sherlock.

“I’m here,” he says. Redundant. He stands and waits, lingering in the open doorway. 

Sherlock inhales raggedly. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“John.”

There are papers lying on the coffee table. John glances at them, sees a lawyer’s letterhead, and a handwritten note. Photographs of a stunningly handsome man, that look as if they’ve been taken under surveillance.

“John, have I ever told you about Victor Trevor?” Sherlock’s voice shakes as he pronounces the name.

John takes a step back. His stomach crawls. Not butterflies: bats.

“No.”

Sherlock explains. He tells John about how they met, at university. He tells John about what they were to each other. He explains that it was love.

Standing in the doorway, John unravels from the inside out. What begins as intense nausea climaxes as a trembling in his legs so savage, he has to lean against the door frame so he doesn’t collapse while he listens.

Sherlock talks about the disaster that ended his relationship with Victor. He talks about the lasting legacy of that disaster, and begins to outline the case. Victor needs Sherlock’s help. Sherlock is asking John to run errands, to help him help Victor Trevor. To help him help his former lover.

John isn’t listening any more. He can’t. He can’t.

“So you want me to–”

“Like I said, run a check on those bank statements, if you would.” Sherlock’s words are abrupt, economical, but his tone is soft and broken. His eyes are still closed. If he can look at John, he chooses not to. 

John takes some papers from the coffee table. “All right. I have to go, but I’ll text you.”

He has no idea if he has the right papers or what to do with them. He’s blind, stumbling down the stairs and out the door onto the street, shoving papers into his pocket. He can’t breathe.

He has his phone out and Harry’s contact information selected before he has time to think about what he’s doing.

She answers before the second ring, her “Hello?” a mix of curiosity and panic. John never calls her.

He breathes into the phone.

“John?”

John doesn’t know how to explain himself. He only knows that Harry is the one person who will understand him in this moment.

“He–he had someone.”

“What? John, what happened?”

“Sherlock,” he says. “I was wrong. He wasn’t always. He had someone. Before.”

“What did he tell you? Start from the beginning.”

John manages to get halfway down an alley, away from the street and the other pedestrians who have begun to stare at him with alarm and concern. He’s sobbing now, the misery of the last few years heaving out of him in ugly moans.

“Christ, Harry. He was in love. He told me–he’s been in love with someone. It happened.”

“Now? Has Sherlock met someone?”

“No.” The sobs have started to shift into hysterical laughter. It comes out high and tight. It’s wrong, laughing at a time like this, but he doesn’t know how to stop. “Before. Before me. Long time ago. It’s just–he can love, Harry. He has and he can.”

“Oh, John. I know. I know that.”

John slides down the wall until his arse hits the pavement. He’s sitting in a puddle. Muddy water soaks through his jeans in a matter of seconds. It’s cold. He deserves it.

“Now  _I_  know,” he says, fresh sorrow and fresh hope bursting through him, pain and pain in equal measures. 

“Good,” Harry says. “Okay, good.”

John can’t speak, so he nods at the phone, like a child. The tears are still coming, but at least he has the truth now, the one truth that, once upon a time, could have saved him.

Maybe it still can. He doesn’t know how he’s going to undo the mess he’s made of things, but at least he has a reason to try.

 


End file.
